Pen and Paper Translations

“Is it today…?”

Today was the last day for Cannes invitation announcements. But no call had come.

“What time is it in France now?”

“How would I know?”

Junseong, clearly tense as well, muttered unintelligibly to himself.

Rrrring—.

Cutting through his mumbling, a crisp phone ring sounded.

“Aren’t you picking up?”

“Hang on… three more rings.”

“…?”

He waited for three more alerts then carefully answered with both hands.

“This is Seonghyeon Produc— Huh?”

His face went solemn and he launched into fluent English.

I was briefly thrown by how good his pronunciation was. Had he always been this good? Throughout the entire call his mouth wore an unreadable expression.

Click.

Even as he set the receiver down, he stared at me with that same unfathomable look.

Just because the call was in English didn’t mean it was Cannes.

We often got foreign calls about selling distribution rights.

Even so, I couldn’t help the surge of hope.

“Hey…”

“It’s Cannes, right? It is, isn’t it?”

He shot to his feet and smacked the back of my head.

(T/N: I am so jealous of their friendship)

But the pain didn’t matter.

Or, more precisely, curiosity burned so hot I barely felt it.

“Did we get it!?”

Unable to hold it in, he burst into loud laughter and shouted:

“We got it! Man, we got it! Aaaah! The first Korean film ever invited to Cannes!”

“F-for real?”

The guy who’d been muttering nonsense from nerves seconds ago was now yelling at the top of his lungs.

“I knew it. I knew! I knew it!”

Like Archimedes screaming “Eureka,” he rolled his eyes and bounced around the office, repeating the same line over and over.

“Gahhh! I knew it! I totally knew it!”

With a dreamlike thing actually happening, my feelings went strange.

A dream come true.

We hadn’t even won anything; it was “only” an invitation.

But it was something I’d never even dared to imagine.

Going to Cannes with my film felt unreal in itself.

“Snf…”

“Hey, are you crying?”

“…”

That uncanny, unreal feeling ended, and suddenly I was overwhelmed with happiness welling up inside.

Coldly speaking, we’d only just taken the first step.

Still, the thought that we’d cleared one huge gate made my chest swell even more.

“You’re crying, huh?”

“No…”

“I won’t say a word if you do! Go on, bawl! If you’re gonna cry, do it right! Bawl your eyes out, bawl!”

He even did a weird little dance beside me as he teased, and the tears shrank back, replaced by laughter.

“If you cry then laugh…”

“Shut it, we’re almost thirty.”

“Age doesn’t matter! Mindset does!”

---

[First-ever Korean invitation to Cannes. Director Gyeong Chanhyeon’s new film Jawol to premiere at Cannes!]

[An overseas festival thought impossible. A huge harvest for Korean cinema.]

[Korea’s first cinematic feat: Director Gyeong Chanhyeon’s Jawol heads to Cannes!]

The mere fact that an invited film had come out of this cinematic backwater turned the Korean film world into a festival.

Night after night, the news trumpeted that Gyeong Chanhyeon’s new film was the first Korean work ever submitted to an overseas festival, stoking the celebratory mood.

Meanwhile, Kim Surin couldn’t bring himself to smile.

From the newspapers in front of him to the TV.

Everywhere, constant reports sounded like prayers to Gyeong Chanhyeon.

[I heard someone recently say he was “exploiting a slavish worship of the West”… I’d like to correct that. This isn’t West-worship, it’s a spirit of challenge. Haha!]

The interviewer and Gyeong Chanhyeon both smiled brightly, as if to needle Kim Surin, while they chatted.

“Again? Do the broadcasters not understand ‘enough’? What is this, a hymn? Son of a—”

Tick.

He snapped the TV off, then crumpled the papers in front of him and stuffed them in the trash.

How on earth…? Why now of all times?

No matter how he framed the questions, no answer appeared.

Only Gyeong Chanhyeon and the crew who made it had seen Jaweol in Korea.

And yet for those haughty foreign film people to invite a Korean film… unless it was extraordinary, that was impossible.

If Jawol had satisfied foreign jurors too, there’d be no way to beat it at the box office.

“Dammit… ha…”

He had no choice but to admit it was remarkable.

Not only those in the Korean film industry, even people with no connection to it were bound to be impressed.

But the sigh of admiration was brief. Soon his own words came boomeranging back at him, and his head throbbed.

That “spirit of challenge” Kyung mentioned in the interview.

That had long since vanished.

Hearing a phrase he’d only embraced when he first learned film made him even more irritable.

What he’d learned making films was that you can’t make money with the art you want to make.

You make money by showing people what they want to see.

Which was why the line “a hungry artist is a true artist” had always resonated.

But after watching Gyeong Chanhyeon’s films, his thinking changed.

He was well-fed and still showed exactly what he wanted to show.

A director you couldn’t help but respect.

If they weren’t in this kind of rivalry, he wanted to ask how he managed it.

Lost in thought, he stared blankly at the dark TV.

A notification tone broke the silence.

Ring-ring.

The name on the screen: CEO Kang Junmo.

Clutching his pounding heart, Kim Surin grabbed the phone with a trembling hand.

“Hello, sir. This is Kim Sur—”

—You saw the news?

“…Yes.”

A voice cold and flat as ice.

It sent a chill down his spine.

—You said they wouldn’t even get invited, let alone win anything, didn’t you?

“T-that… well, it’s not Competition, it’s ‘Un Certain Regard’…”

—I couldn’t care less about that, and I can’t meddle in a foreign festival anyway. You remember what I told you before?

“Yes, sir. I keep it front of mind.”

—You can do it, right? All we need is to win here at home.

“Y-yes, sir… I—”

Click.

Before he finished, Kang Junmo hung up.

Kim Surin frowned slightly and checked that the call had ended.

“That punk thinks money makes people his playthings.”

To clear his head, he turned the TV back on and surfed channels.

But however many interviews Gyeong had given, his face showed up on every channel.

[You’re hoping for an award too, right?]

[It’d be nice… but who knows? I’ll hold my tongue for now.]

[Hope you can settle the score for what happened at the Cheongpung Film Festival. Haha.]

Click.

He switched the TV off again and looked at the Cheongpung Film Festival Best Picture trophy displayed where everyone could see it.

Maybe Gyeong Chanhyeon was simply built different.

A talent too good to stay making films only in Korea.

The fact that a person like that hadn’t received this award, while it sat in his own hands—perhaps that was a disgrace for Korean cinema.

He no longer wanted to look at the gleaming trophy.

Suddenly he was ashamed to have received it.

He stuffed the trophy in the trash can and stomped on it. Only then did he feel the slightest relief.

---

“Heh heh. Heheheh.”

The day we were to leave for Cannes. I woke up laughing.

The only small regret: we’d been invited not to the Competition but to Un Certain Regard.

Generally, if a film’s artistry is outstanding, it goes to Competition; if it’s not quite at that level but the director is young and worthy, they’re invited to Un Certain Regard.

“Maybe we could even win something…”

With every pleasant possibility dancing in my head, I grabbed the suitcase I’d packed yesterday and stepped out of my room.

Mom was filling zip bags with various things.

“Mom, I’m heading out.”

“Hold on a bit. Take these. You said you’ll be gone ten days.”

“Aw, you don’t have to…”

“If your mother says take it, take it. It’s not just a day or two—ten days means you need some Korean food!”

She packed non-perishables with care, even fetched another suitcase, and only after I lugged two heavy cases to the car did we head for the airport.

When I arrived, the crew were already gathered, arms full of luggage, chattering like kindergarteners off on a field trip, though we were all grown adults.

“Business class, right? It’s my first time…”

“It’s my first time on a plane at all.”

“Then you’re ruined. Start with business and how are you ever going to fly economy?”

“All thanks to Director Gyeong. When else are we going to Cannes? And on business class reserved by the KMD Group!”

Counting heads to see if everyone had arrived, I noticed only one missing.

A big guy was nowhere to be seen.

“Jinsu hyung’s not here. I mean, even Yeonji’s here, so why isn’t Jinsu?”

“I’m always quick, you know!”

Hearing me, Kwak Yeonji leaned in to show off the still-short haircut she’d kept.

Behind her, I spotted Jinsu hyung hustling toward us, hauling two huge suitcases.

“Sorry! I’m late, aren’t I! Haha! So sorry~!”

He must’ve run hard; sweat beaded on his brow and he was breathing fast.

“Okay! That’s everyone, right? Let’s board~.”

“Ahem, hold it!”

Just before we headed in, Junseong cleared his throat and gathered everyone’s attention.

“Alright, you all know this, yeah? If we look meek, foreigners will look down on us. From now on, we’re in performance mode. We are cultured Korean filmmakers who fly business class overseas all the time. Okay?”

“Okay!”

---

With one layover and nearly sixteen hours of travel, we finally arrived at Nice Airport in France.

We hopped on the reserved bus straight to Cannes.

The long flight had left everyone wiped out and asleep on the bus, but Yeonji, one of the younger ones, sat bright-eyed.

“Sunbae?”

“Yeah?”

Flushed with excitement, she looked at me.

“Thank you.”

“Huh? Out of the blue?”

“Both Junsik oppa and I… we’re the first Korean actors to come to Cannes. Haha…”

Junsik hyung was snoring in the back, out cold.

“It’s thanks to you.”

“You worked hard too. I’m here thanks to you as well.”

Her acting especially shone in this film.

I’d heard countless crew say it was a masterstroke not to use Lee Seobin and to take time to go with Yeonji.

Frankly, if it had been Lee Seobin, I’m not even sure she would have agreed to my unreasonable requests.

“What’s that called again… a persona? The actor directors cast like their alter ego.”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t you make me that? Junsik oppa’s the male one, and when you use a woman, make it me!”

Her sudden request made me laugh.

“No, don’t laugh. I’m dead serious! Where else will you find an actress like me? Huh? You said cut my hair and I did, I even counter-proposed to really get slapped! That’s insanely great, right?”

“It’s not like you just… declare a persona.”

“…”

Her lips jutted out in disappointment.

“Have you thought about your next project?”

“Jawol isn’t even out yet. What ‘next project’?”

“You crank out films like a factory. I figured you already had at least a synopsis.”

“No. I’m taking a break. Got other things to do.”

I glanced back at Go Sangwoo, trailing behind us.

He seemed exhausted too, sunk deep in sleep.

“Then if your new film needs an actress, hold an open audition again.”

“What…?”

“Whatever it is, I’ll win it.”